


NFWMB

by Theartfulldodger



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Anxiety, Arson, Banter, Character Study, Depression, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Hand Jobs, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Inspired by a Hozier Song, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Character Death, Nightmares, Non-Graphic Violence, Obsession, Oral Sex, POV Draco Malfoy, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Powerful Draco Malfoy, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Worth Issues, Smoking, Stalking, Swearing, Wandless Magic (Harry Potter), flangst if you will, i promise the sex is mild, i think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:08:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29342607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theartfulldodger/pseuds/Theartfulldodger
Summary: In the still of night, when you curl at my side like a milk-drunk kitten, I realize I no longer fear this ache in my chest for you.When I run my fingers through your untamed curls and settle my palm at the nape of your neck, I don’t fear this overwhelming and foreign weight of emotion. I lean into it.When I feel your body tremor under the grip of a violent nightmare or lay my hand on your wounds after a particularly gruesome raid, I do not fear the love I have for you.I fear what I would do to keep it.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 16
Kudos: 46
Collections: My Bloody Valentine 2021





	NFWMB

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as an expansion of one of my Drarry Microfics, which I used for the summary.
> 
> If the tags make you hesitate, I've got spoilery details in the end notes. Practice self care!
> 
> Special thanks to my beta, Gem, [on Tumblr](https://potter-loves-malfoy.tumblr.com/), [on AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/potter_loves_malfoy/works). You're a star and this would not be what it is without your assistance.

The sound of curt tapping invades a dream of golden skin and chocolate until the fantasy fades, and all I’m left with is the obnoxious click of a beak on glass. I pry open my sleep-heavy eyelids and am met with Harry’s wild curls, the gentle curve of his spine, and the easy rise and fall of his chest as he sleeps on, unaware of our visitor at the window. Mind still muddled from sleep, I mold my body around his, chest to back, and press my chapped lips to the back of his neck.

“‘S early. Go back to sleep,” Harry mumbles. His voice resonates through his ribcage, vibrating against my chest.

“Don’t blame me, blame the owl,” I mouth along his exposed skin, picking up the faint taste of salt with my tongue. 

Harry turns to curl into my chest, tucking his face to my neck and intertwining our legs as a vine clings to a trellis. 

_ Tap. Tap. Tap. _

Harry groans, hoarse from sleep, before throwing the covers over our heads. A shiver runs up my spine at the graze of Harry’s tongue over my collarbone.

“Maybe if we hide, it will go away,” he breathes against my chest before allowing his hands to wander the planes of my ribs, thighs and back. 

I weave my fingers into Harry’s unruly hair to bring his face to mine. Merlin, he has so much fucking hair; it needs a trim. He leans in for a kiss, missing his mark a bit in the dark of the covers. I can feel his smile as he smudges his lips across my cheek to meet mine in a lazy morning kiss.

These moments, though easy now, used to scare the shit out of me. Early morning vulnerability was not only uncomfortable, the exposure made me skittish, a raised hand to an abused crup. But Harry was patient, Merlin, was he patient. After months of peeling away the layers, picking ourselves apart, and exposing the human flesh beneath, we stood with a great and terrible mess laid between us. 

And neither of us ran from what we saw.

So, now--now I revel in shared whispers by the fire, late night reminiscing, time well spent in bed. I live it, I dream of it, and all I ever want is more.

I nip gently at Harry’s bottom lip and give it a playful tug. The tapping grows louder against the windowpane, the bird clearly determined to fulfill his quest. 

“Fuck,” he says, pulling his lip from my teeth. Despite the low light, I can picture Harry’s mischievous expression when he brushes kisses along my jaw and whispers, “You know, I am always impressed by how generous and selfless you are.”

I snort at the weak attempt at flattery. “You and I both know that only applies to you.”

Harry’s lips stretch into a grin as he presses a kiss to my forehead. “That’s all I care about. Does it apply now? I may repay the generosity,” he says wickedly.

“Anything for you, darling,” I admit, abandoning the warmth of the covers for the chill of the room. 

The little owl peers at me inquisitively through the windowpane. His claws are hidden under the layer of snow that coats the windowsill. I fiddle with the rusty latch for a moment and reach for the letter attached to the owl’s outstretched leg. He accepts a treat and a pat before flitting off into the low light of the winter morning.

The corners of my mouth fall as I lay my eyes on the familiar, unsteady script on the envelope. I consider simply ripping the envelope to pieces, but decide against it. I force a calming breath into my lungs before turning back toward the bed. As Harry emerges from the covers, I toss him the envelope.

“He’s sent another one,” I sneer, not bothering to hide the acidity in my voice. Harry glances sideways at the letter on the quilt before reaching for his glasses, the long line of his back on full display with the stretch. He skims the letter, and a deep crease forms between his brows. I fight the urge to smooth it over with my thumb.

“I still think he’s probably harmless.” He shrugs, though his nonchalance is unconvincing. 

“Are you willing to bet your life on it? Or mine?” I ask, climbing back into bed to read over Harry’s shoulder. 

It’s entirely possible that, in the beginning, I was a bit paranoid. Harry receives fanmail daily, and it’s not unusual for some to be a tad… overzealous. _ _ Micah’s letters, however, didn’t feel right from the start. The flattery was overkill, the tone, strangely possessive. The language became more desperate, more twisted with each successive letter.

Sometimes, I want to shake some sense into Harry. To make him more cautious, more skeptical, less trusting. But, I already can’t stand those qualities in myself. For Harry to prioritize self-preservation would mean he would no longer be the wonderful and terrifying man I fell in love with. He’d longer be Harry.

So, we do nothing. The letters come. I swallow my anger. I wring my hands. Harry makes a joke; tosses the note into the bin. Out of sight, out of mind.

Until another arrives. Then we repeat.

“Of course, I wouldn’t risk our lives on it, but I don’t think that’s what we’re doing here,” Harry says, passing the letter over his shoulder and settling down in the bed.

My stomach lurches, and my eyes widen as I skim its contents. A deep, visceral cringe tears through my body at the words,  _ 'You may not know it yet, but I know the end game here.'  _ I crumple the paper in my hands, willing a gentle  _ Incendio _ to my fingertips. It’s an addictive feeling, the chaos of the flames.

I blow the ashes from my palm. They float to the floor, dirtying the rug.

“Show off.” Harry raises an eyebrow and nods at my hand.

“Let’s take your wand away for a few years; I’m sure you’d make this look like child’s play.” I smile weakly. 

Harry visibly deflates, his effort to lighten the mood having failed. 

“Draco, do you trust me?” he asks, winding his arms around my waist and pulling my back to his chest.

_ Not with this. _

“Trusting you is not the problem.”

“Nothing will happen. I won’t let anything happen.” He imprints the words on the skin under my ear. The sound is sweet like honey, but the aftertaste is sour on my tongue.

After it’s clear we won’t go back to sleep, we fuck, lazy and slow, in the haze of the early morning. Even as Harry rocks inside me and I leave bruises on his hips, Micah’s words reverberate in the crevices of my mind. 

* * *

“Draco, this is… disturbing,” Granger says from behind her ridiculously oversized desk a few weeks later. It’s much too big for a junior member of the Wizengamot. She shrinks amidst her towers of books and parchment; a half-empty cup of tea sits precariously close to the edge.

Stacks of memos and letters shuffle themselves into place on a table in the corner, and a dozen paper cranes flit above her head. The persistent noise makes me want to set it all ablaze.

“Thank you, Granger. I’m glad someone agrees with me,” I say, crossing my legs and leaning back in the uncomfortable chair across from her.

“When did this start?” she asks, glancing over the letter in her hand.

I think back to the day after Harry’s thirtieth birthday. It was warm and uncomfortably humid, even though the sun had hardly risen. The firewhiskey was still humming pleasantly through our veins when we woke to the owl that morning. 

“August.”

“Four months?” Her nose wrinkles as though I just plopped a rotting corpse on her desk.

“You try convincing Harry of something he can’t see with his own eyes. There’s more blind trust than survival in that man.” 

I can never seem to keep my hands still when I’m upset, always flailing about. It must look like I’m trying to take flight. I’m not sure if my face is hot from anger or embarrassment.

She sighs and wraps a stray curl around her finger. “I know. He wrote to Voldemort using a Horcrux for months. Unquestioningly. And don’t get me started about Nagini in Godric’s Hollow.” Her shoulders sag, and she drops the letters to rest her elbows on the desk. 

I know all of this already but don’t have the energy to brag.

“Yes, his track record in these situations is shit. That’s exactly my point!” I mirror her discouraged posture, leaning my elbows on my knees and burying my face in my hands. 

I hear Granger’s footsteps before I see her shoes between the gaps in my fingers. I try my best not to twitch when she lays a hand on my shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Draco.”

I shrug her hand away and attempt to hold back the venom on my tongue. 

“You’re sorry? That’s it? Have you got anything more substantial to offer, Granger? Because I sure as hell didn’t drag myself into your office for a fucking pity party.”

Granger crosses her arms and leans against the desk in front of me, tapping her toe on the floor in an irritating rhythm. She huffs a wandering lock of hair out of her face and chews on her lower lip for a moment before answering.

“There’s not much we can do. Wizarding laws covering stalking are nearly non-existent. To prove intent when all we have are vague letters--”

“You’d call those insane declarations of love vague?” I’m starting to yell. My arms have minds of their own. I can’t find a reason to care.

“In terms of action, in the eyes of the law, yes. Micah doesn’t describe any specific plan or malintent. We can’t take him to court for making us uncomfortable.”

Suddenly, I’m standing, crowding Granger against her desk, heat pulsing at my fingertips. “So what?” I spit. “We just… wait? Until what, exactly? He kidnaps Harry? Slips him some Amortentia, or puts him under an Imperius curse? Being reactive instead of proactive is asking for a fucking disaster.”

“I don’t write the laws, Malfoy,” she hisses, standing taller. “Draco, I don’t want to see Harry hurt any more than you do. You can still be proactive. You’re a cursebreaker, for Merlin’s sake, scan the damn mail. All of it, even yours. I’ll do a bit more research and see if there’s anything else we can do.”

I fumble through my pockets with unsteady hands for a cigarette as I step back to relinquish my position. With some effort, I press the pad of my index finger to the tip of the cigarette and focus on the stirring of magic and heat under my skin. The cigarette catches, and I shove it between my lips, inhaling a lungful of smoke.

“Does Harry know you’re smoking again?” Granger asks judgmentally. I ignore her.

“You know, I’m not sure which I prefer,” I mouth around the butt of the cigarette. “That this psychopath actually tries to hurt Harry, or that we live the rest of our lives waiting for the day he does. Which do you think is worse, Granger?”

* * *

I take the long way home today, apparating to the end of the lane, and meandering down the gravel road towards the house. A warming charm wraps me in a fuzzy heat, but it’s not enough to combat the icy wind that bites at my cheeks and extinguishes my cigarette. The night is clear, and the early winter moon is bright as I pass frosted fields and neighboring homes tucked back between the trees. 

There’s an uneasy serenity about the lonely hush of winter evenings, the feeling of being in nature, but not of it. After hours of unraveling a fickle and intricate cursed pocket watch, the strange and quiet woods is the ideal place to empty my head.

I stretch my neck and shoulders as I walk down the lane, satisfied with the crunch of cartilage and muscle. A yawn escapes my lips, the long day and late night beforehand catching up to me. 

In the early hours of the morning, I woke to an empty bed and the sound of running water in the bathroom. I found Harry soaked, naked, and curled on the porcelain tiles of the shower. His hair clung to his face, and his eyes were clouded with tears. He looked so small.

We sat under the spray until the water turned cold. I pulled Harry between my legs, pressed his back to my chest, and felt the uneven tremor of every sob. I pressed my head between his shoulder blades as he whispered of fear and sorrow and death.

I wanted so desperately to take away his pain, to make him forget. But I couldn’t. So instead, I washed his hair, gently untangling the knots with my fingers. With an outstretched hand, I summoned the bar of soap and a flannel from the cupboard and rubbed the citrusy bubbles into his worn and tired muscles. I warmed a towel in my hands and took care to dry every crevice, every inch of exposed skin.

I don’t know how long we stood in the dim light of the bathroom, wrapped in towels and each other's arms. Long enough for Harry’s breath to slow, for his eyelids to droop with fatigue, for him to whisper, “I love you,” into my neck. 

Snow and ice crunch under my feet as I make my way up the drive. Between the winter-bare trees, the glow of the porchlight casts long shadows of spectral branches that stretch across the snow. In between images of Harry on the shower floor and my exploding pocket watches, I think about the two letters we received this week and Granger’s uselessness at stopping them.

I open the front door to an atrocious pop song playing from the wireless and the smell of a spicy curry in the air. Harry stands hunched over the kitchen table, pulling takeaway containers from a greasy paper bag and humming along to the music. 

I keep my steps light to sneak in behind him before wrapping my arms around his waist and up his chest. “Hello, darling,” I whisper into his ear.

Harry turns in my arms, eyes bright from his smile. It’s a sharp contrast to the fear they held in the darkness of the early morning.

“Hey, I got dinner. Hope Lynn’s sounds all right,” he says. He kisses my lips before removing my hands from his waist to finish setting out the containers.

“Sounds great, thanks,” I reply before falling into a chair.

“Long day?” 

I groan and ruffle my hair, releasing the sour and ashy smell that clings to each strand. “The longest. Some bint found her grandfather’s pocket watch in her attic and failed to mention that said grandfather liked to dabble in ancient Fae shit. It’s a fucking miracle that watch hadn’t already burned the god damn house down.”

“Fucker. Remember that case we had a few months back, with the apples? Total shit-show, I can’t believe you managed to break the watch on your own. What happened?” 

I watch as he finishes opening the containers and sets out plates. He’s wearing a button-down shirt I bought him for Christmas last year. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and I don’t know why, but every time he wears a shirt like that, it nearly takes my breath away. Something about his forearms...

“Is it pretty where you go?” he asks with a glint in his eye.

“As pretty as you are, love,” I quip back, unashamed of my gawking. “Well, as soon as I picked up the Fae magic in my diagnostics, I demanded an additional five hundred galleons up front.”

“Nice,” Harry laughs. “You get it done?” he asks before shoveling rice and curry onto his plate.

“Are you really asking me that question?”

“Oh ye with such fragile ego, hath your pride been wounded?” he teases. “But really, no. I just want to know how you did it.” He grins around a bite of potato.

I smirk, enticed by an opportunity to poke at Harry’s temper. “Oh, I don’t know if I can explain,” I drawl. “It’s quite complicated, love. Wouldn’t want to bore you.”

I’m met with a swift kick to the shin. Harry wears an indignant smirk when he says, “Try me, _ darling. _ ”

Snow starts to fall outside as I complain about the pocket watch, and Harry complains about Robards’ ill-timed vacation. The curry is long gone when Harry tells a joke about quidditch, and I laugh as though I haven’t heard it a dozen times before. 

I don’t mention my trip to Granger’s office.

I heat a kettle on the hob and stir an ungodly amount of milk and sugar into Harry’s mug. We sit on the couch, limbs and fingers tangled together, and talk aimlessly until the forgotten tea gets cold. 

It occurs to me how irrational it is, how much I love him.

I reach up to tug at the stray curls at his neck. “This needs a cut; you’re starting to look like a wild animal.”

“We can do it this weekend before we go to your mother’s? I don’t want to hear her list of recommended hairdressers again,” he laughs.

“This weekend it is, then. If I can stand to look at it that long.”

“You love it,” he smirks. “I guess we should clean up the kitchen.”

“Don’t worry about it.” I nod to the plates on the table. “Go get cleaned up, I’ll take care of the mess,” I say, pressing a kiss to Harry’s forehead. I watch the swing of his hips as he walks upstairs and resist forgoing the clean-up to follow him.

I turn up the knob on the wireless and stop for a moment to smile at the note on the refrigerator that Harry left last week.  _ Is that a wand in your pocket or are you just happy to see me? _ Not his best work, but it makes me smile, so I’ve left it up. I still haven’t come up with a response.

I drop the handful of dishes into the soapy water in the sink and roll up my sleeves. I like to do the washing-up by hand. Even the strongest of  _ Scourgify  _ charms leaves something to be desired. So, I plunge my hands into the steaming water and start to scrub the bits of rice and sauce off of our plates. I smile at the image of Harry waving from his own  _ Chosen One  _ collector’s plate that I bought as a joke last summer.

A flash of gray catches my eye in the window above the sink, and I startle when I see a familiar owl perched on the sill. He tilts his head and stares, yellow eyes wide and unblinking.

I cast a glance over my shoulder to make sure I’m alone before drying my hands and opening the window. Following our routine, the little owl extends his spindly leg and allows my trembling hands to unwrap the letter and twine. I give him a timid pet and close the window. He chirps in irritation at the forgone treat, but I ignore him, turning away to settle at the table.

The scraggly script is the same, untidy and cramped, as though written in a caffeinated rush. One thing, though, is different about Micah’s letter.

It’s my name scratched across the beige envelope. 

I slip my index finger under the flap but drop the letter at the sting of a papercut. As I soothe the cut with my tongue, I remember Granger’s warning to scan the letters and frown at my hasty reaction. With my finger still in my mouth, I wave my other hand over the envelope, intuitively casting the diagnostic charms I used over the pocket watch just a few hours prior.

The letter and envelope seem harmless, at least in terms of potential curses. Although, I suppose it could still contain some biochemical weapon or poison. Before I second guess my decision, I pick the envelope back up off the table and carefully peel away the wax seal. A small, black button rolls onto the table when I remove the letter.

_ Mr. Malfoy, _

_ You must be wondering why I’m writing you. Part of me wonders that myself, actually. Why should I deign to write to someone as filthy and disgusting as a former Death Eater? Tell me, is the ink still warm on your arm? _

_ You see, I saw you and Harry in Diagon Alley the other day. You were both sitting at a corner table at that new pub. Harry was wearing a checkered shirt and jeans (you really ought to dress him better), and he was so absorbed in every word that fell from that venomous tongue of yours. I could hardly stand the way he looked at you, as though you were the only man in the room.  _

_ As though you don’t deserve to rot in Azkaban for the rest of your life. _

_ It occurred to me later that evening that Harry truly must not know any better. For why else would he slip into bed with someone such as yourself? Unless we’re dabbling in Unforgiveables again, hm? _

_ I will admit, it’s clear that you love him. I could see it in your eyes. But I could also see that you know the same thing that I do: you don’t deserve him. That he should have the world, and you can’t possibly give it to him. _

_ So, you see, you and I are on the same page. We both want what’s best for Harry, and we both know that isn’t you.  _

_ I’d like to meet with you so we can discuss how to handle this situation in a way that harms Harry the least. It’s a tangled web you’ve woven, and it will be difficult to extricate him without losing a metaphorical limb. But, we both know, for Harry’s sake, that it must be done, don’t we, Draco? _

_ Do the right thing, for once. _

The letter lacks a signature, but the words, _ ‘9am, tomorrow, use the button,’ _ are scrawled at the bottom of the page in its stead. I run my hand through my hair and let the letter slip from my hand. The edges of the paper begin to blacken and curl as the letter succumbs to a time-released  _ Incendio. _

I collapse on the table, laying my head on my arm to watch flames engulf the remainder of the parchment.

There’s always been a part of me that knows I don’t deserve this. That same part has always known that Harry deserves more than I can give. But every time those thoughts spread like wildfire between the fissures of my brain, Harry lays a hand across my chest or smears his lips across my forearm and begs me to believe it’s not true. It’s so easy to give in, to get wrapped up in the lie, and get so drunk on his touch that I forget who we are, if even for a moment.

But, like a single ember left glowing amongst burnt ruins, those thoughts are never truly gone. They lie in wait for a light breeze, some kindling, any opportunity to reignite. And, of course, they always do.

“Draco? You’re taking too long,” Harry calls from the top of the stairs.

I sit up straight and glance once more at the ashes and the button on the table before responding, “On my way.”

As soon as I’m through the bedroom door, Harry makes quick work of the buttons down my shirt, the zip of my trousers. He growls in frustration at a stubborn clasp and vanishes my clothes, the sudden cold summoning a layer of gooseflesh across my arms.

“Show off,” I exhale as he mouths along the silvery patchwork of scars across my chest and palms my quickly hardening cock. “Love, I haven’t showered.”

“Mmm,” Harry hums, tickling my skin. “Don’t care. Love it when you’re dirty. I can taste the smoke and the dark magic… like you took a fucking bath in it.” He nips and sucks his way down my chest, paying special attention to a crooked scar outlining my hip bone. 

I come with my hands in his hair, his name on my lips, and my cock pulsing down the back of his throat. Harry wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before standing to meet my lips in a lazy kiss. The urgency is lost as I walk him towards the bed, peeling away layers of clothing and savoring every inch of skin, the taste of sugar on his lips. 

I hate the phrase  _ making love. _ It makes my skin crawl. But I’d be delusional if I thought this could be construed as anything less. By the time I sink into Harry, he whispers my name like a prayer, and I all but release at the sound. All I feel is heat as he marks my skin with his nails and locks his ankles behind my back. 

Harry watches me when he comes, spilling untouched over his stomach, and I think, in that moment, he’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

We lie in bed, tangled together atop the sheets, flushed and shiny with sweat. Harry sighs and closes his eyes, resting his head on my arm. I walk my fingertips along his exposed ribcage and his lower back before slipping a finger down the crevice of his cheeks to stroke the sensitive flesh. His eyes snap open at the touch, and he scowls unconvincingly. 

“You’re a terrible actor,” I tease, leaning forward to lick the shell of Harry’s ear. “I know you’d take it again, if I asked. You’re so good for me, darling. I hardly deserve you.”

“That’s a load of shit,” he says, pulling back to look me in the eyes. “Not that I’m not up for more, because I am if you are,” he huffs a laugh and leans forward for a tender kiss. “How many times do we need to have this conversation?”

“Twenty-seven,” I say, managing a straight face. Harry quirks an unimpressed eyebrow, waiting for a better answer. I sigh, defeated. “I don’t know, Harry.” 

I despise this conversation. It makes me feel ridiculous, needing this reassurance. Relying on someone else for something as personal as self-worth makes me want to scream.

“Let’s try something new. What if it doesn’t matter what we deserve?” Harry asks matter-of-factly.

I narrow my eyes before answering, “Explain, Potter.”

“The idea of  _ deserving _ is such bullshit anyway. Who the fuck cares? All that matters is that I want you, clearly. And you want me,” --he trails a finger over my softening prick and grins wickedly-- “clearly. Why do either of us have to deserve it?”

“You had lunch with Luna this week.” It’s not a question.

Harry groans, throwing an arm over his head. “She confuses me so much,” he says into the crook of his elbow before peeking out from under his arm. “I still don’t know what Nargles are. It’s been fifteen years, and still, every time she brings up Nargles, I smile and nod like a complete fucking prick!” He laughs, full and easy, before his face morphs to a more serious expression. “But, we didn’t talk about Nargles this week. Draco,  _ deserving _ anything is a total sham. It’s made up. Who decides who  _ deserves _ anything?”

“Why were you even talking about this when you could be talking about Nargles?”

A dusty pink flush warms Harry’s cheeks before he answers. “Because I worry about you, you git. And I don’t know what I’d do if you decided to act on this stupid fucking guilt--”

“Harry, I--”

“No. Let me finish. We’ve both done things. Some good things, some bad things, and sometimes it depends on who you ask. But I love you, not because of, or even despite those things. I love you no matter what. Fuck good or bad. Fuck _ deserving _ .” He pauses a moment, his lips curving into a cheeky grin. “As long as you’re fucking me, I don’t really care about the rest.”

My immediate reaction is to protest, to argue that  _ of course, _ it matters. Of course, Harry Potter shouldn’t have a Death Eater’s cum leaking from his arse. Of course, Harry Potter doesn’t want this as badly as I do. But the pleading expression in his eyes makes me wait. I want to believe him. 

“I don’t need you to be anything that you’re not. I’m all in, Draco,” he confesses.

“No matter what?” I ask as my mind wanders to the ashes on the kitchen table. 

He smiles so easily that I wonder if he realizes what I’m asking. I don’t clarify when he confirms, “No matter what.”

* * *

I take the long way from home the next morning, walking down the gravel drive with quick, purposeful steps, alone amongst the trees. My winter robes flutter in the light breeze, and I’ve shoved my hands deep in the woolen pockets, despite my warming charm. 

In my right palm, I grip the button, and in my left, a pack of cigarettes and Harry’s fridge note from this morning.  _ Wanna make me moan like Myrtle?  _ I roll my eyes as I rub my thumb along the crease in the paper. 

Before I left this morning, I lied to Harry. I stripped and crept into the shower behind him, still foggy from sleep. I kissed his lips and pulled his hair before I sucked his cock, the spray at my back as I knelt on the shower floor. I watched him dress as though he were creating a work of art, and I kissed him again before he smacked my arse goodbye. “Have a better day at work today. Make that money,” he joked, squeezing my hand before grabbing a handful of floo powder. 

“I will,” I lied and watched him disappear in the emerald flames.

With each step away from home, I review my loose plan for the day. I check for my wand, securely strapped to my left arm, although I doubt I’ll need it. Last night, I laid sleepless in bed, considering my options. I don’t want to hurt Micah. Well,  _ I _ want to hurt Micah, but  _ Harry  _ wouldn’t want me to hurt Micah. Therefore, I don’t want to hurt Micah. Technically. But I can’t stand the thought of living the rest of our lives in fear of what this man may do to get to Harry. 

Does  _ 'no matter what’  _ really mean  _ 'no matter what’? _ What possibilities cycled through Harry’s head with those words? Cutting his hair too short? Forgetting his birthday?

If I cross some invisible line, will I lose him anyway? Am I even capable of crossing this line? 

My mind strays to a black and starless night at the top of the Astronomy Tower, the most powerful wizard in the world at the tip of my wand. I can almost hear Aunt Bella, whispering in my ear...

So, I won’t hurt Micah. A short series of spells cycles on repeat through my head:  _ Incarcerous, Legilimens, Obliviate. _

Disable. Extract. Remove. Simple. Easy. Painless. 

At precisely nine o’clock, the button heats in my hand, initiating a nauseating pull at my insides. The tug ceases when I land in a cold and darkened building, reminiscent of a dilapidated barn. Old, dried straw litters the worn wooden floor, but the barn is otherwise empty. I look out a broken window at a seemingly endless snow-covered field, dotted with an occasional bare tree.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” a low, husky voice asks from behind me. 

I turn to find a man that I can only presume to be Micah: a tall, lanky red-haired man with a smattering of freckles across his nose. He could easily be a Weasley. Despite the cold, he’s only wearing a light jacket over his clothes. 

“I suppose. Micah, is it?” A cloud of breath billows from my mouth like smoke.

“Smart one, you are, Mr. Malfoy. I’m actually surprised you came. Glad to know you didn’t chicken out.” Micah crosses his arms and leans against the wall, dirtying his jacket with dust.

Oddly enough, it never crossed my mind to ignore the invitation, nor did I consider the potential threat to my own person. Although perhaps I should have, now that I think about it. But this was a solution to a problem, the potential dissipation of this nightmare that otherwise had no end in sight. A way to keep Harry safe.

“Where are we?”

“Unimportant, Mr. Malfoy. Come, let’s chat,” Micah says, nodding towards the back of the barn.

Does he really intend to just talk? Now, I’m not so sure. Regardless, I have no intention of going any deeper into this barn. An exciting thrill flutters in my chest as I direct a quick and efficient  _ Incarcerous _ in Micah’s direction. Long ropes materialize in the cold air, slithering up his limbs and torso. He struggles against them for a moment before falling to the floor.

“I’d rather chat from here, thanks. In fact, I don’t really find a need to chat at all. People lie when they talk, Micah. Let’s eliminate the talking, shall we?”

Much of my anxiety evolves into warm anticipation. The corners of my mouth turn up as I move forward with my plan. 

I kneel next to Micah and look into the eyes of the man that’s haunted my thoughts for months. He’s not at all like I’d imagined, but that doesn’t diminish the fear and rage that he’s caused. My heart races under the onslaught of emotion. I want to wrap my hands around his neck, to feel the flesh char under my palms.

_ Do it…  _ But it’s not Aunt Bella’s voice in my ear.

It’s Harry’s.

“What do you think this is going to accomplish, Mr. Malfoy?”

_ No matter what, Draco… _

Why am I here, again?

“Shut the fuck up for a minute, will you?” I snap, trying to clear the phantom whispers from my mind. That’s not Harry, it’s not who he is.  _ No matter what  _ surely doesn’t mean  _ that. _

“You’re the one that’s tied me up and left me on the floor. Is it so hard to have a simple--”

Unable to tolerate this disgusting man’s voice, I interrupt with a whispered  _ Legilimens _ , reaching out with my thoughts to breach the barriers of Micah’s mind. Accessing his mind is agonizing. I’m met with a tangled mess of distorted memories hidden behind a curtain of thick black smoke. Harry’s face appears behind the black, smudged and nearly unrecognizable. I try to force my way through until I’m met with the closing of air-tight barricades and nowhere to go but out.

I catch myself with my hands as I stagger back, unsteady and out of breath.

“Now, Draco. I only asked you here to talk, remember? We both have common goals. All of this is an overreaction,” he says smugly. “Are you having trouble with something, or are you having a stroke? The look on your face, I can’t be sure.”

“Fuck you,” I hiss, moving to stand over Micah. 

“Ah, so no stroke then. You’ll find, Draco, that my Occlumency skills are quite sharp. Dare I say, sharper than your Legilimency, as it seems. You may need some practice. I could show you sometime.”

My anxiety has nearly resurged to full panic, but I force my lungs to expand, deep and slow. I still have options. I could try again with my wand. Or, in reality, the Legilimency was a kindness, an unnecessary courtesy. Why not be a little reckless with a memory charm? If any situation were to warrant it, certainly it would be this one.

I remove my wand, just in case, and point it at Micah’s face.

“Needing the wand now, are we? This is a waste of our time Draco--”

_ "Obliviate," _ I whisper, searching for the shift to a glassy-eyed and malleable mind state. Only it doesn’t come, and I’m met with another swamp of indecipherable memories and treacherous smoke. Micah tilts his head, smearing the dirt on the floor with his hair, and laughs.

“Did you know that an accomplished Occlumens can counteract the effects of memory spells? Little-known fact, that is.”

I feel the panic building stronger in my gut as my simple, easy, painless plan starts to unravel. My options start to vanish, and the threat of losing Harry starts to grow, fueling my rapid heartbeat like a fever. 

What else can I do? I can’t possibly leave him with his obsession and his delusions and his plans. But I have no way of removing them. Any threat to his safety is not likely to work, he’s already mad. And the whole wizarding world has seen the results of letting righteous fury run rampant, I can’t possibly leave him with that potential.

I feel as though my heart may beat out of my chest and my ribs ache with the effort of breathing. My mind starts to collapse under the pressure. Dumbledore’s on the floor, and then it’s Micah, smirking at me from the top of the Astronomy Tower.

_ Do it… For me, darling. _

“While we’re here,” Micah begins, “let’s have this talk, shall we? I need you to leave Harry, but I need you to do it gently. I don’t want to be working with pieces that are broken beyond repair. You can manage that, right, Draco? Let’s come up with a plan.”

“What did you say?” I stop for a moment to recall his words before continuing, “Why would I do that? Because you asked nicely?”

Micah smirks arrogantly, as though he’s the one standing and I’m the one on the ground. 

“Because you and I both know that you aren’t good enough. Harry deserves so much more than what you can offer. It’s sickening, really, to think that he would end up with the likes of you. He’ll need to be tested after you break it off, of course. What were you thinking? Did you really think this would last?”

Did I think this would last? Perhaps not at first. But over the years, I couldn’t help but see Harry as a permanent fixture of my life. I don’t need a ring to know that, for years to come, we’ll still be hiding under the covers on Sunday mornings and teasing each other over dinner. I’ll still run my fingers through his hair and rub circles into his back as he clings to me after a nightmare. I’ll trim his hair in the bathroom every month and watch the gray strands fall to the floor. I’ll join him in the shower after, pressing kisses to his wrinkled and spotted skin.

A vivid future with Harry flashes before my eyes, and I know I would do anything to make it true.

_ No matter what _ . 

While I didn’t think Harry meant it, in this moment, I cling to it. An exhilarating heat starts to rumble under my skin, born of nervous anticipation and unsatisfiable rage. This is no longer an innocent at the end of my wand with my life on the line. This is Harry’s happiness, our future, at risk. 

I’ve spent the last year exchanging secrets in the dark, whispering confessions into Harry’s ear, and exposing every inch of soft and vulnerable skin to the man who said he loves me no matter what. It’s been the best year of my life, and this arsehole thinks I’m just going to walk away?

“Oh, Micah…” I pocket my wand and kneel on the floor again, a nasty smile spreading across my face. “Let me explain something to you. I need you to pay attention, now.  _ I know it will last. _ Harry and I belong to each other, in a way you will never understand. No one else can really know what Harry’s been through all these years. What makes you think you could give him what he needs? That  _ you _ would be good enough?”

“I wouldn’t be a piece of Death Eater scum--”

“No, you wouldn’t… Pity. Did you know, he likes to lick my Mark?” I drawl, the image fueling my rage.

Micah’s eyes widen in horror. 

“Hmm, someone looks surprised. Is Harry not as innocent as you imagined?” I almost sing the words. “Anyway, the point. Would you be able to talk Harry down from a nightmare that you know nothing of? Would you be able to stand to listen to stories about the horrors he’s lived? Would he be able to stand to tell you? Harry and I, we have history. And yes, not all of it is pretty. But you can’t replace the knowing, the understanding without even trying.”

“That doesn’t matter--” he starts to say, until he’s struck by my  _ Silencio. _

“Manners. It’s rude to interrupt,” I lean forward, placing my hand on the straw-covered floor. “You see, Micah, you were right about two things. I am catastrophically in love with Harry. We probably have that in common. I think about him when I wake; I dream about him when I sleep. Do you know what else you were right about?”

He shakes his head, still rendered mute.

“That I was a filthy, disgusting Death Eater, and I’m willing to burn the world down if it means I get to keep him,” I whisper into his ear as I release the flames that blaze under my palm before stepping back. The straw catches, smoking at first but quickly evolving into flames.

Micah, mute and bound, struggles on the floor as the dry and rotting wood ignites. I don’t stay to watch the barn turn into a pyre, allowing the pull of apparition to take me to the haunting quiet of our street.

* * *

When Harry walks through the door that evening, his Auror robes and eyelashes are damp with snow. I sit cross-legged on the couch with yesterday’s edition of _ The Prophet _ , skimming the lifestyle section. A new tea shop just opened on Diagon that I’d like to try.

“You’re home early,” Harry says, dropping his boots at the door. He shakes his dripping hair like a dog and takes his glasses off to wipe the lenses on his coat. “What’s the occasion?”

“Come here, you heathen, let me help,” I chide lightheartedly, climbing up from the couch to stand in front of Harry. I take his face in my palms and meet his lips in a kiss while allowing a drying charm to spread from my fingertips. When we part, I’m breathless, and Harry’s hair is frizzy, but dry.

I link my fingers behind his neck, rubbing my thumbs along the stiff muscle below his ear. “No occasion, just finished early,” I lie for the second time today.

Harry leans forward to nuzzle my hair, wrapping his arms around my waist. “Mmm, I won’t complain about that. What do you say we wash up and do a pub night? Ron and Hermione don’t have Rose tonight and asked if we’d come.”

I acquiesce, though it’s difficult. “I suppose I can share you tonight.”

We climb into the shower, all lips and teeth, and the heat of the spray burns my skin. Harry washes the smoke from my hair and rubs the soot from my skin before reaching for my cock. All traces of the day swirl down the drain in a mixture of cum and high-street soap.

I press Harry against the tile and capture his lips in mine, exploring his mouth with my tongue. I swallow his breaths and shiver under his touch. Under the spray of the shower, I’m overwhelmed with the idea of having exactly what I want in my grasp. With knowing I could lose everything, like crisp autumn leaves in a storm, but as long as I have Harry, it wouldn’t matter.

How easy it’s become, to need him so desperately.

I grip Harry’s hips and press my lips to his ear. “Marry me, darling.”

“What did you say?” he asks, pulling back to look at me.

I press my forehead to his and see my life in his eyes. “I want to cut your hair when it’s thin and gray. I want to count your age spots and the lines as they appear on your face,” I mutter against his lips. “Marry me. Spend the rest of your life with me. Don’t ever leave me.”

“Where’s the pomp and circumstance? You’re proposing to the Boy Who Lived, after a hand job in the shower?” he teases before pulling my hips to his. “They make plates with my face on them, god damnit, where’s the dancing house elves? Or at least some treacle tart?”

“I’ll get you a piece of pie at the pub? It’s cherry on Thursdays, your favorite. That’s all the circumstance I’m prepared for at present, unfortunately.”

“Cherry is the best pie…”

“Merlin, you’ll be the death of me. Is it a yes, you bastard?”

“Of course it’s a yes, git,” he says before pulling my face to his. “Yes, yes, yes,” he breathes into my mouth. 

The water turns cold, but I’m not ready to let go. So, I wrap us in a warming charm and press my face into Harry’s neck. 

“I started smoking again,” I profess, in lieu of the confession I can’t bring myself to utter.

“I know. I’ve been able to taste it for months,” Harry says lightly. I look up, wide-eyed, to face him. “Just like I know the smoke in your hair wasn’t from work today. Smells different. More… wild? I don’t think that makes sense.” 

The words echo between the shower walls before washing down the drain, lost in the pipes. I stand, paralyzed in fear of Harry’s next sentence.

“Don’t be scared, Draco, I don’t care. I’m still here, like I’ve always been, and I’m not going anywhere. Remember? No matter what,” he whispers against my lips, and I swallow his words like air.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Come say 'hi' [on Tumblr.](https://graymatters.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Title from the Hozier song of the same name.
> 
> Spoilery description of content:  
> Harry has been getting letters by owl by a stalker that have become increasingly concerning to Draco. Harry likes to shrug it off, but Draco isn't willing to put their safety at risk. When the stalker reaches out to Draco to meet, Draco takes the opportunity. While his original plans included a non-violent means of being rid of this problem by using memory charms, the stalker's occlumency leaves Draco no other choice. Draco decides to burn the building down with the stalker in it. No graphic depictions of any of this. Recurring themes explored include self-worth, the concept of what it means to be deserving and what actions we can rationalize for love. There are no graphic depictions of PTSD/panic attacks, but definitely strong references.


End file.
